


Dance

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff, something soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:42:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25045570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: Brennan is both gleeful and saccharine when he drinks. It shouldn’t surprise her. And all he wants to do is dance. With her?
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	Dance

Brennan is both gleeful and saccharine when he drinks. It shouldn’t surprise her. Her uncle had once told her, growing up, that excessive alcohol reveals a person’s true inner character. The words had stuck in her head ever since, particularly when she discovered that too much wine only made her more dour. But Brennan is good and joyful and sweet down to his core, it seems.

She doesn’t want to be here, surrounded by the other members of his council and inner circle, celebrating the completion of the renovations to the Herald’s Rest. Instead, she wants to be curled up in her makeshift bed in the attic over the foundry. Dorian (presumably in a yet further apology for his actions at Haven) has supplied her with a stack of delicious new novels, and she hasn’t yet found the chance to more than glance at them.

But her absence would be noted.

Noted and _commented_ upon.

Even Cullen has managed to descend from his crumbling tower for the occasion. So she sits at the table, a second mug of terrible ale all but forgotten at her elbow, trying (and only partly failing) to listen to Varric regaling them with what must be an almost entirely fabricated story about a failed Carta assassination attempt.

“Music!” Brennan exclaims when the story finally lulls, jumping up so fast from his seat that the table jostles, spilling her ale. “We need more music!”

Maryden has been gently strumming, for atmosphere more than anything else, but at the demand, she smiles, and starts up a familiar tune. That blasted ditty about Sera. The subject of the song hangs over the railing of the balcony above the minstrel, singing along. Her voice is almost offensively flat, but she seems to be having fun, and Cassandra reminds herself not to resent her for it.

Brennan scrambles over the table as soon as the song is finished, spilling mugs and cups as he does so, though aside from a few grumbles, no one takes him to task for it.

“And now, dancing!” he says happily, catching Sera as she flings herself off the balcony and whirling her round a few times before the elf breaks away.

Maryden starts up a raucous jig, more suitable for the purpose. He looks around for a brief moment, and then offers his hand to one of the scouts sitting nearby. Of course, she accepts, and he twirls her about the small dance floor for a minute. Next, one of the serving girls, and then one of Cullen’s recruits, then one of the armourers, then another scout, and on it goes, even as the dance floor begins to fill with other people.

He’s a better dancer than she imagined he would be.

Not that she imagined him dancing.

Ever.

She tamps down the small embers of jealousy that flare up when he approaches the table again and reaches out for Josephine. Their ambassador _giggles_ , letting him grab her hand and spin her around, darting effortlessly between the other couples.

“I need more wine,” Dorian states, pulling her attention away. “Another mug of that terrible ale for you, Cassandra?”

Shaking her head, she turns completely away from the dance floor, picking up her still half-full mug so she has something to do with her hands.

“Enthusiastic, isn’t he?” Cullen says absently, looking over her shoulder.

All she can do is mutter in assent. They’ve been here for a few hours already, surely she would be within her rights to slip away? With the Maker’s luck, she may not even be spotted leaving.

Silently, she mentally picks through the books she has waiting for her. Which to start with? The one about the pirate queen? The avaar chieftain? The roguish apostate?

There’s a tap on her shoulder. Dorian, or Varric or someone, pestering her to drink more and have fun, most likely.

“No,” she says, instinctively.

“Oh.”

Maker’s breath…

The voice is small, and disappointed, and achingly, achingly familiar. She turns her head, knowing and yet dreading what she’s going to see.

Brennan.

For the briefest moment, he looks crestfallen. Then she can only watch as he draws his shoulders up, squaring them, the way he does in battle, or the increasingly infrequent times they spar together. The smile returns to his lips, but not his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises.

She wants to take it back.

The air between them has been more than a little tense for weeks, ever since they arrived at Skyhold and it was her ( _her_ ) they chose to name him Inquisitor in front of everyone. Having him look at her like that breaks her heart, even if it shouldn’t.

She wants to take it _back_.

But she hesitates too long, and the moment passes. He gives her a quick nod and turns on his heel, reaching out to someone else. She doesn’t wait to see who it is, getting to her feet and striding thoughtlessly towards the door.

The music follows her, and there are more people in the courtyard. More dancing and drinking, the whole of Skyhold celebrating, it seems.

She tries to remind herself that _this_ is why they prioritised the renovations to the tavern. That it is of benefit to the whole Inquisition for people to have a place to relax and let off some much-needed steam. Brennan included.

“Cassandra?” Cullen’s voice breaks her reverie. “Are you all right?”

“I am _fine_.”

If she says it firmly enough, will it become true?

“Ah,” he replies, adjusting his cloak as an icy breeze ripples through the courtyard. “Not my scene either, to be honest. Good boost to morale though.”

“I _know_.”

She doesn’t mean to snap at him, and thankfully he doesn’t call her on it, merely nodding.

“A little fresh air, and then we’ll both go back in. One more mug each, and then it will be well past midnight, and we can call it a night and not even Josephine can criticise us. Does that sound like a plan?”

Not a good one, if she’s honest, but he’s right.

She takes a deep lungful of the night air. It’s crisp, as it always is up here in the mountains. They’ll need to be certain to finish the roof repairs on the hall and towers before the winter really sets in, or everyone will freeze in their beds.

“You’re thinking about work, aren’t you?” Cullen says, with just a hint of a smile in his voice.

“How can you tell?”

He sighs. “Because I am too, and I promised Josephine I wouldn’t.”

“We’re not very good at this, are we?”

“No,” he agrees, wincing as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck.

“Are you all right?”

“What? Oh.” He moves his hand again, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and then drops his hands sheepishly to his side. “It’s nothing.”

She glances around them before replying again, but the people around them seem thoroughly distracted. In any case, she drops her tone low and quiet. “Is it the lyrium?”

For a moment, he looks as if he’s going to deny it, but then he takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

“The headaches?”

“Some days. Most nights. Don’t worry. I am still perfectly capable.”

She nods. They have an understanding about his withdrawal, and though she keeps an eye on him, she trusts him to let her know if he needs to be relieved of duty. They lapse into a companionable silence, listening to the music still echoing from the tavern, and the joyful sounds of their people celebrating.

After another few minutes, Cullen clears his throat. “Shall we go back?”

Her insides twist at the thought of seeing Brennan again, happy and dancing and enjoying himself, and she hates herself for it. _She_ was the one who said no, without even looking. _She_ was the one too frightened to tell him she’d changed her mind. She cannot punish him for her own mistakes.

“You go. I… need to punch something for a while. I will join you after.”

He hesitates for a moment, and then gives her a somewhat sympathetic smile. “Of course.”

The training dummies are not far. Still within earshot of the music, the light spilling out from the windows of the tavern over her. She half-wants to retrieve her sword and slash at them, but that would require going up to her attic, and the temptation to remain there in the company of her books would likely prove too tempting a prospect.

Instead, she wraps her hands with the cloth that she habitually carries on her belt, and stretches before attacking one of the dummies.

This has always been a source of solace for her. The rhythm of her fists landing on the gently padded wood. It settles and centres her. She barely notices time passing, more people spilling out of the tavern onto the grass in front, making their way in dribs and drabs back to their rooms and barracks.

Eventually, she stops. Sweat chills on her brow in the cold air. Her muscles have that good ache from exercise. She can barely remember why she was so unsettled.

“Cassandra?”

For a moment, she thinks she’s imagining it. Her traitorous brain reminding her of what she cannot have. But she turns anyway, gaze landing on the Inquisitor’s form leaning, loose-limbed, against the tree. Watching her with an unreadable expression.

“Inquisitor.”

He pushes himself upright, shaking a little with the exertion of it, leaving a hand casually pressed against the trunk. She strongly suspects that his hand is the only thing keeping him standing straight, so she approaches him.

“Did you grow tired of dancing?” she asks, immediately regretting her words as his face relaxes into a languorous smile.

“So many people,” he tells her dreamily. “We didn’t dance at the Circle. Not a productive use of time, and we didn’t have any music. But I remember… when I was a boy, there would be parties. I wasn’t old enough to go, but my siblings and I would watch from the gallery. Hiding, pressing our faces between the railings, watching all the people below in their finery. I always wanted to be down there. Dancing. And now _everyone_ wants to dance with me!” He leans back against the tree again, the smile fading from his lips as his brow furrows. “ _Almost_ everyone.”

Her heart twists again.

“Inquisitor, I…”

“It’s no trouble, Cassandra,” he interrupts, cutting her off. “I figured it out.”

With slightly less difficulty than before, he pushes himself upright again, stepping away from the tree, towards her. He shakes out his arms and shoulders, raising his fists loosely in front of him.

… does he want to punch her?

She is not entirely familiar with the customs of the Free Marches, but she did not think that her rejection had been such an insult to him that he would want to _fight_ her over it.

“Spar with me!”

Maker’s breath…

“Inquisitor, you are _drunk_.”

He laughs, sweet and joyful. “Not too drunk to dance, and there were a lot of people in there. I didn’t collide with _anyone_. Just spar for a little while. Please?”

She hesitates, and he throws a loose and languid jab, pulling it so his fist taps lightly against her shoulder. A cross lands against her ribs a moment later.

“Please?” he echoes. “This is the only way I’m allowed to dance with you, I know.”

Oh…

He…

Her thoughts skitter away from her like small clouds buffeted by a strong breeze.

She puts up her fists, and he brightens like the sun.

Despite his clear inebriation, it is not a bad bout. Something about the alcohol, the dancing, the music still leaking from the tavern, has him light on his feet, and a little… unpredictable. He spins to dodge her blows, twisting around her so she has to work harder to land anything on him.

And all the while, he has a smile on his face.

If any of the revellers see them, she doesn’t notice.

Neither does she care.

Eventually, he trips over his own feet, colliding in a glancing blow with one of the training dummies. Reaching out as he falls, he grabs for her, somehow managing to turn the fall into a twirl, leaving them stood with her tight against him. He has one hand clasped with hers, pressed between their chests, his free arm wrapped around her waist. Closer and more intimate than any other dance hold she has seen him use tonight.

Her heart pounds at the nearness of him. The last time they were this close… he was unconscious and she was praying he would not die of hypothermia.

Now, however, he is very much awake, and looking at her, and…

He leans closer, just an extra inch, eyes drifting closed, and her entire body goes into high alert. This is _wrong_. This is impossible. He is only doing this because of the alcohol and the dancing and the music still leaking from the tavern. It is a story from one of her books. Not real.

Not for her.

She tries to take a step back, and in an instant, he releases her.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises.

She wants to take it back.

Again.

But she doesn’t.

Silence hangs in the air between them. When did Maryden stop playing? She hadn’t noticed.

“I should… go,” he continues, when the silence gets too much for him. “I _would_ like to spar again tomorrow, if you are amenable? It’s been a while and I wouldn’t like to get rusty. Imagine what would happen the next time someone came within melee range of me?”

“The only person who should be within melee range of you is _me_.”

It’s a thought she has had a dozen times before, but never voiced. Even now, she isn’t quite sure why she’s said it. Perhaps the ale she had earlier had gone to her head too. Or the dancing. Or the music.

He gives her a small smile that she could almost imagine is… hopeful?

“I will try to remember that,” he says softly. “Even so?”

“Dawn?”

His smile turns to a look of dread mixed with terror. She laughs.

“Oh, you were _teasing_ me,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief. “That’s new. We should have parties like this more often if it’s going to lead to teasing.” He smiles again, brighter. “After dinner, perhaps?”

She nods.

He holds out his hand to her. She takes it, but before she knows what’s happening, he lifts hers to his lips and presses a light kiss against her still wrapped knuckles.

“Thank you for the dance, my lady,” he says, low and gentle.

Her heart doesn’t stop, because that is something that only happens in the most melodramatic of her novels, but it is very close. Instead, all she can do is watch as he runs his thumb almost unthinkingly across her fingers, release her hand, and, still smiling, step away into the night. She gives herself a moment to regroup, and then makes her way to her attic.

The books she had been so longing to get to are waiting for her when she gets to her bedroll, but she ignores them. How could they compete with the evening she has just had?

Instead, she lies down, and drifts off to sleep with Maryden’s music in her head, and the lingering feeling of his lips on her hand.


End file.
